


Nadine and Billy Bob Welcome You to M76-343

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-29
Updated: 2007-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney doesn't realize he has a thing for John's neck right up until the moment that he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nadine and Billy Bob Welcome You to M76-343

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tx_tart](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tx_tart).



Rodney doesn't realize he has a thing for John's neck right up until the moment that he does.

They're on M76-343 – Redneck Pegasus East, as Rodney uncharitably starts to call it when they step through the gate and discover the rusting hulls of two almost-trucks propped up on bricks, not ten feet away. "Lovely," Rodney drawls, rolling his eyes as he glances at his tablet. "Energy readings less than a mile ahead. Shall we press on to the trailer park?"

"Rodney," John murmurs, a hint of warning in his voice.

Rodney huffs at him. "Yes, yes, accepting of all cultures, don't anger the natives, blah, blah, blah. All I'm saying is if there's a welcoming ritual that involves moonshine and a trip to Wal-mart, I'm not participating."

"I will do my best to save you from such an end," Teyla says smoothly, and the smile on her face ably communicates that while she doesn't know what Wal-mart is, she knows every nuance of Rodney's scorn, gets the message, and will beat him down if he does anything stupid.

"Hmmph," Rodney offers, but falls into line behind Sheppard, Ronon to the rear, and if he thinks he hears dueling banjos on the breeze, it's probably just a trick of his imagination.

The Rednecks (Geeshnaat'n, in their own language) end up living in a lovely village, full of fat thatched cottages and gardens thick with flowers. No one's wearing a NASCAR t-shirt, and everyone seems to have their own teeth, but Rodney's sense of unease doesn't abate for the lack of self-fulfilling stereotypes around him. He can't help but notice that everyone seems to be eyeing his neck – and Teyla's, and John's, and (he turns around) yes, Ronon's too. "Oh hell," he sighs. "Vampires." Which makes John pull up short.

"What?" he asks, turning around, tipping his sunglasses down his nose and looking at Rodney with a mixture of wariness and amusement.

Rodney zips his jacket all the way to the top and edges closer. "They're eyeing our necks," he whispers.

John lazily glances at the gathering villagers. Some of them are carrying baskets of vegetables, Rodney notices, that are ridiculously phallic. He decides not to bring that up in deference to the more pressing issue of an all-new variety of Pegasus vampires who want their blood.

"If they were vampires," John says evenly, smiling and nodding at the swelling crowd, "they wouldn't be out during the day."

"What, because the rules of vampiric behavior are constant across different galaxies?" Rodney hisses. "Where's the paper on _that_ , Stephen Hawking?"

John may be biting the inside of his cheek – a suspicious divot has just appeared above his jaw. "How about we just say hello?" he offers at last, but Rodney can tell he's laughing at him.

"Fine," he says snippily, raising his shoulders and lowering his head to give the Rednecks less to look at if they should get any ideas.

A beaming man and woman are approaching, their ample girth and embroidered kerchiefs suggesting they're the Rednecks in Charge. "Good morning," Teyla says, nodding politely.

"Greetings," says the woman. "I'm Nadine."

"And I am Billy Bob," says the man, bowing.

Rodney slaps John on the shoulder, just in case he's not picking up on the mental 'I told you so,' he's directing toward him.

"We are most pleased to meet you," Teyla smiles. "We are explorers, looking for partners in trade. May we perhaps sit a while, talk with you both?"

"Of course!" says BillyBob, smiling broadly. "We are always glad to meet new trading partners! You come from . . . ?"

"We travel," Ronon says gruffly. "Around."

"Travelers!" Nadine says warmly as the crowd murmurs in a generally happy fashion. "Then you must already know of the rite of Greeting."

"Ohhhhh no," Rodney mumbles, pulling his collar up over his mouth. "Biting, biting."

Teyla quells him with a look. "It has been many years since we last were called upon to participate," she says. "If you could remind us of the exact nature of – "

Billy Bob steps forward, directly into Ronon's personal space. "I'm afraid you must lean," he says. "You have been fed much darishaa."

The crowd laughs (ha, ha, Rodney thinks a little hysterically – darishaa's probably code for the blood of newborn children) and watches as Ronon smirks and leans down. "Don't!" Rodney blurts, horrified, clutching his gun to his chest. But neither man pays him any attention, and Billy Bob merely drags his nose the length of Ronon's neck.

"You are welcome here," he says as Ronon grins.

"Cool," Ronon says, and noses him back.

The Greeting is apparently a same-sex endeavor, and with the preliminaries out of the way the women approach Teyla while the men form a line to Ronon's left.

"This is crazy," Rodney says, his words slightly muffled by his jacket.

"No one's biting," John says calmly as Billy Bob approaches him.

"Yet!" Rodney manages, watching with wide eyes as Billy Bob leans in and noses from below John's ear to his collarbone. And, _oh_ , oh, _fuck_ – Rodney's dick twitches in his pants and suddenly he realizes he's facing an entirely different problem to the Rednecks wanting to snot all over his neck. John noses at Billy Bob, tendons standing out in sharp relief as he moves his head, and Rodney smacks his own forehead, whimpering because, wow, that kinda hurt. "I can't believe this," he whines to himself, and he'd indulge in a satisfying bout of mental self-flagellation except for the fact that Billy Bob's standing in front of him now.

"The Greeting," Billy Bob says, expression utterly guileless, and Rodney sighs, snicks the zipper of his jacket down a few teeth, turns his head and lets Billy Bob go to it while he watches John get nosed by some other homespun-wearing guy.

It's torture, the nosing – not unpleasant (no one seems to have allergies or the flu), but torturous, watching John be nosed, watching man after man inhale the (probably slightly spicy) scent of his skin (not that Rodney's given it any thought) and intimately learn the stubble that's already shadowing his jaw. Every time Rodney leans in and noses the Redneck in front of him, he closes his eyes and imagines it's John's skin he's touching, which – Christ on a cracker – how did he never realize he had a _thing_ until _now_. Travel to Pegasus! he thinks to himself in something of a panic. Learn your kinks and sexual proclivities under completely inappropriate conditions! Recognize that your rationales for jerking off while thinking of your teammate have nothing to do with stress management at all, as if you didn't already know, god, you idiot!

By the time all the male villagers have nosed Rodney's neck and Billy Bob is clapping his hands in unbridled glee, Rodney's so flushed that he thinks he might explode, no doubt from several different parts of his body at once. "And now you must Greet each other!" Billy Bob says, and _fuck_ , fuck, that is just unfair, monumentally, ridiculously, wholly unfair and Rodney turns around quickly to make sure he doesn't miss seeing Ronon nose John or John do the same in reverse. It's likely to be hot, his brain tells him, and yes, oh yes, it's very hot, with the hot manly man-on-man action and the nosing and the long, tilted line of John's neck. Ronon ambles over to nose Rodney next and Rodney blushes, mumbles, "Ha, ha, isn't this quaint," as Ronon Greets his throat, all dreadlocks and wide shoulders and there is absolutely no way for Rodney to minimize his hard-on. And then it's John's turn – John, who's smirking at him, and okay, it's official, Rodney's never ever going to live it down. He'll forever be the man who got it up because of noses, and he can imagine the YouTube videos the nerds in Environmental Systems will make about this one, probably using video from the internal security feeds and a splice from Little Shop of Horrors, and _god_ , sometimes it's a liability having a brain that works as fast as his.

"Hey," John says, breaking into the loop of Rodney's frantic thoughts.

"Um. Hi," Rodney says, swallowing hard.

"Ready to be nosed?" John asks, quirking an eyebrow, and he takes off his shades, which he hasn't done for anyone else.

Rodney sighs unhappily. "As I'll ever be, I suppose," he offers, and tilts his head just a little to the side.

It's strange, but Rodney almost swears he hears John hum happily right before he nudges his nose to the base of Rodney's throat. And that's all new – a nosing in reverse, if you will, collarbone to ear rather than ear to shoulder, and John – John's _snuffling_ just a little, and no _wonder_ Redneck number seventeen looked so pleased if this is John's technique. But then John's dragging his nose higher and Rodney's higher brain functions burn clean away, because oh, _oh_ – he can't help himself, he shivers and clutches at John's forearms, and when exactly did John put his hands on Rodney's hips? "Mmmmm," John murmurs, as if he's enjoying this a lot, and then right as his nose nudges up against Rodney's ear (and Rodney thinks it's a good job his eyelids are closed because his eyes are rolling back in his skull), he sighs just a fraction and _licks_.

"Wha – " Rodney startles and opens his eyes, looks at John, who's not quite meeting his gaze. John's hands are still on his hips, and Rodney's kneading the leather of John's jacket in his hands and, and, and, and, and okay, it might prove impossible for Rodney to kick start his brain ever again, which would be quite the loss for humanity but a hell of a way to go, and –

"You now," John breathes, and oh my god, Rodney thinks, that's his sex voice, that is absolutely John Sheppard's sex voice, previously only heard in his fantasies and that one time he stumbled in on him and Chaya, and John's tilting his head, stretching out his neck for Rodney to look at, and Rodney's supposed to _nose_ at all that skin, and _it's possible the licking was intentional_.

"Oh." Rodney says, swallowing hard. "Oh, wow." And he leans in, noses at the hollow of John's throat (which is, strictly speaking, off the nosen path, but if there are rules, no one told him beforehand, and he can't be expected to just intuit that it's a straight-line Greeting just because approximately forty-three other men were straight-line nosers, there's always an aberration, it's scientific, he's just helping out) and god, yes, John _does_ smell spicy, if a little sweaty, too, with perhaps the smallest overlay of gun oil and god, he could do this all day, snuffle at John's neck, let his tongue peek out over his lips and lick at John's stubble, take a meandering path up to his ear and nip there, sucking the skin between his teeth just to hear John gasp.

"So," Billy Bob says, when Rodney takes a while to let John go and John doesn't show any real urge to push Rodney away. "We will talk now! And indulge in a fine malt beverage."

"Hear that, McKay?" John whispers into his ear. "They've got beer."

"Well of course they do," Rodney hisses back. "It's probably Bud." John laughs softly, and Rodney feels his chest fill up with a strange and twisting warmth, the kind that means he's a few short seconds from losing the filter that keeps his internal babbling firmly inside his own head. "Besides, I rather think I need a cigarette," he says, pulling back and looking down at his feet, not quite wanting to meet John's eye.

"Cigarettes are for after sex," John says easily, and Rodney notices that he's tugging his shirt down over what seems like a fairly impressive erection.

Rodney's brain flails, but he finds it in himself to lift his chin, glance at John, then away, then back. "Oh?"

"Beer first," John says, flicking his sunglasses on again. "Sex later."

"Sex – sex with . . . "

John raises an eyebrow. "You?"

Rodney sweats from head to toe and feels his knees weaken just a fraction, not that he lets on, except for the way he's blushing. "Okay," he nods. "Your place or mine?"

"I was thinking the storeroom near the armory," John smiles blithely, nudging Rodney to walk with him in Teyla's wake. "Closer." He scratches the back of his neck, nods at one of the local women who's carrying a basket of enormous not-cocks – or carrots, Rodney corrects. Carrots. Or squash.

"I – uh. Absolutely," he manages as John elbows him and they duck into the village tavern. John grins at him and oh, Rodney thinks, goodbye brain cells, he'll be a much dumber man by the time all the hot sweaty sex in his future finishes burning up gray matter, but – he glances at John's throat as they settle on a bench, as John lifts a tankard and gulps down the local brew – it's a worthy, worthy death. And he drags a pint of beer across the table and drinks appreciatively, catches Teyla's eye, and finds it in himself to offer an utterly genuine 'I'm enjoying the Rednecks' smile.


End file.
